You Love Too Much
by swan-scones
Summary: "His body moves in its sepulchre." Set at the conclusion of Episode III. One-shot.


The construction appears to be, from where he stands, a floating human pelvis. The bare bones of it, thick bones bitten tight around a black womb, empty. He thinks of the birth, remembers the birth. He does not regret the loss of it, though the notion hurts; he has other things on his mind. It is perhaps the most beautiful he has ever seen the universe tonight; the stars like grains of bitter salt, their slow death invigorating. He wonders what she would think of all of this.

He wonders if she always knew.

Their wedding night is a memory that stays with him because he had never seen her seem quite so afraid. It had been after; a few moments after, in the bed, where she had lay on her back, her lips curled in pain, her cheeks hot, red like the juice of a ripe fruit. Her neck had been glistening with sweat, and on her thigh, turned out at an angle, her blood was running. Slow, thick. He did not understand his compulsion, but he could not ignore it, and so trailed is finger through it, manipulating it's movements over her milky skin. She must have sensed his enjoyment; he had not meant to hurt her, but he could not deny that having her as his own, and seeing her colours, feeling her quiver to restrain her pain, was strangely pleasurable. Her properness, monarchical stubbornness, her sensibility, it restrained her from too passionate, too close contact, _but now_ – he had thought – _now_ he _had_ her. When his eyes shifted up to meet hers, she was staring at the ceiling, forcing ignorance of his action, his fascination, stunned. She allowed him to continue, but he did not know why, and they did not speak of it. She must have always known.

She allowed little darknesses to slip between them easily as little kisses.

Perhaps like the other moments, she might just ignore this and let it go, he hopes. But this is something that cannot be changed now, and he is glad at least that she does not know the full extent of his wounds, or the volume of blood on his hands. He knew before anyone had told him that she was dead, for he could feel she had slipped away – sweet, quick pain like a pinch on the wrist – and then she was gone. How dull it had been. He had wanted some excruciating mark of it, he simply wanted to feel her again – but she fell, pointless, cold with defeat, rolled helpless to melt like a tear on Mustafar. Surely she did not equate to such insignificance?

Sidious, he found, was correct in every lecture he gave. He had not even felt the loss of his own child. And yet, he had not forgotten their agreement.

Beside him Sidious appears a featureless, rippling black ghoul. "And now begins our Empire," he says, with a cloying sense of joy and hunger.

"Yes, Master," he replies. "And so now we must finalise our agreement."

"Agreement?"

Sidious does not turn, though it is clear he knows his meaning.

"You spoke of resurrection, did you not? Currently you are indebted to me."

A slight, capricious smile changes Sidious' features. "This will all be part of your new education, Lord Vader."

"Then I wish to be educated on this particular subject immediately. Soon it will be too late," he insists sharply, and he does not pause respectfully here, for he feels there is not enough time. His heart beats dry as a funeral drum, and he knows it is her procession, he knows they've smoothed her lovely dark hair, folded her hands on her swollen stomach; he knows she's dressed for her final goodbyes.

"Lord Vader, what is it that you seek?"

"_Padmé_," he says harshly. "You promised me her life for my obedience."

"Senator Amidala is dead, Lord Vader."

"There is still time," he insists. "I believe there is still time. And I believe she will soon see sense and join us, Master, if she were given –"

"And you believe, Lord Vader, that she will still continue to love you?" Sidious asks, quiet, languid. He says the word, love, as though it is a bad joke, like a sour taste, gristle or bone in his mouth.

He glances down at him for a moment, and then into the glass before him. His reflection, black and grotesque, stares back at him, insect-like. His voice sounds wise and old, and the rasp makes his eyes sting with realisation. It is not even a basic symbol of a human face. She had always spoke about how she had loved his lips_ like a cherub's _and always ran her thumb over his cheek while he slept, and giggled at its childish softness.

And yet he was certain she would forgive, she would understand.

_You love too much, my love,_ she had said after his first murder, _and I, I love too much. _He closes his eyes for a moment.

"I do."

"The change is irreversible," Sidious whispers. "You cannot turn back, Lord Vader. That face is not the face of your previous self, and it was that, as you put it, that she loved."

"She would love me regardless of –"

"Senator Amidala did not _love_ you."

He is terrified into silence.

"They all knew you were capable of attaining so much more power, Lord Vader, they were blinded by fear, ignorant in their fear. She did not forgive you out of love. She was blinded by _fear_, not love."

"Padmé did not care about power."

"Senator Amidala, like the others, knew you were beyond the menial stretches of the _Jedi_. You are a fool to deny it. And you are a fool to seek education of the dark side with a dead woman as your only motivation."

He decides to listen. _A dead woman_, he thinks – dead women become nails on his coffin, and it is then that he realises this is the final one. Now he walks boxed in, black, shut out, cold. His body moves in its sepulchre.

"Senator Amidala and Anakin Skywalker are dead. Look at your face."

He looks.

"She could not _love_ that face."

* * *

**A/N: First ever Star Wars fic!**

**I've only recently gotten into Star Wars and as a complete anti-hero sap, I am a massive Anakin fan, and as a complete villian sap, I am a massive Vader fan. This has probably been done a million times, but I had to make a tribute! **

**Please let me know what you think.**


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